


Soft

by Shabby Abby (KJPearl)



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: BDSM, Dream Sex, F/M, Humiliation kink, Interspecies Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 10:14:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11530107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KJPearl/pseuds/Shabby%20Abby
Summary: The Moth Queen teases Throndir and he enjoys it quite a bit.Aka all I'm saying is Austin really shouldn't make throw away comments about characters being negged by Moth Queens.





	Soft

“We call you ears,” the moth queen said, in her voice that was a multitude of voices.

“That’s fair,” Throndir admits, and for a moment he can imagine Hadrian chastising him,  _ Stand up for yourself. You have a name.  _ “Wait, like you’re gonna call me ears, or my people ears?”

“Your people. But you too. You’re Soft Ears,” she says and Throndir is pretty sure the expression on her face is a smirk.

The room erupts into chittering moth laughter for the second time that evening and Throndir feels himself turn red. He’s being toyed with. He feels foolish, vaguely humiliated, and incredibly aroused. He meets Rosette’s shining black eyes and knows she can tell. He looks down at his food and tries not to squirm under the weight of her gaze. He begins to eat, unable to listen to Hella beside him or the moths going about their business, more and more slowly waking up as evening approaches. Occasionally he looks up, and Rosette’s eyes are always on him, mocking him. Even when he looks away he can feel her piercing gaze. Dinner passes in a haze of shame and lust. Throndir can barely taste his food. He wonders briefly how to conceal his hard-on from Hella when they leave dinner. 

In the end he is saved by virtue of her eating quickly and simply leaving him. His meal seems to go on forever and no time at all until the moth queen calls him over.

“Soft Ears,” she says, and chitters, “Come with me. We have much to discuss.”

Throndir follows, helplessly. He wants to respond. He has a million questions and a few complaints about their treatment of him and Hella, but her tone allows no arguments. It is clear she does not want him to talk, so Throndir is silent . 

They reach a small tent and Rosette enters it. Throndir follows. The tent comfortably fits the two of them along with a large silken mattress, the only piece of furniture in it. 

“Sit,” Rosette commands, so Throndir does. He lowers himself to the mattress. She remains standing.

“Soft Ears,” she murmurs, almost to herself, “A good name for you, isn’t it? You’re very soft.” She looks pointedly at his stomach, rounded with fat, and Throndir finds himself blushing again. While his build was common in Auniq, where people ate what they could to survive the harsh winter, he is starting to learn that it is considered unattractive in some parts of Heiron. He finds himself hoping Rosette does not find it unattractive. He wants her to find him appealing. He is drawn to her and her disdain for him. But he knows nothing about moth beauty standards, so all he does is sit quietly and listen as she continues. “And so obedient. Not like your warrior friend, now she’s a feisty one. She got so angry about our little joke with the fox. But not you. You were too nervous. Too desperate to please.” Another smirk and now he heard his own voice, repeated back, “‘I don’t want to make this awkward, but is there a custom? Should I serve you all? I don’t want to be disrespectful.’”

She stands above him, powerful and superior and gorgeous with it. She mocks him, and all Throndir craves is more. Throndir wants her so desperately, wants her to keep making him feel like this. Shame and arousal clouding his thoughts until all that exists in his mind is the pleasure of submission. He can see the joy she takes in control, and hopes he is reading the situation correctly. 

“What do you want?” Throndir asks.

“A good night. You will serve me,” she uses his own voice for the word serve, “I think you will enjoy that as much as I do.”

“Yes,” Throndir whispers, thinking of the erection straining his pants, and of the way his mind is starting to relax, like it did those evenings in Auniq when he experimented with elves who would hold him down or tie him up. Who would call him names and give him orders. Yes, serving he can do.

“Good. Take off your clothing.”

Throndir does, hyper-aware of her eyes trained on him, hungry and unblinking. He feels consumed by her. He is on fire, lust rushing hot through his blood and shame burning on his face. He wants to feel like this forever. Naked and vulnerable, judged and found wanting. He takes a deep breath as though it will calm him. It does not. He drops his clothes to the side and remains standing, waiting for further instructions. He waits for some time. Motionless, but for the rise and fall of his chest. He is aware of every beat of his heart as he stares into black eyes that reveal nothing. His thoughts feel blurry and he dares not make any move, any decision without her say so. It is his job to serve, to obey, and he wonders why he has been given no orders. A distant part of him notices that he is once again being toyed with. Throndir doesn’t acknowledge that part beyond the thrill of shame and pleasure that fills him for an instant at the realization. It rushes down his spine and he shivers, but there is no need to engage with the thought. Not tonight. It is not his job to think or to worry. Throndir would feel nervous at how long time stretched on in silence, but he cannot feel nervous here with Rosette. She will do as she pleases and he will do as she pleases. And she will punish him if he does something wrong. He waits, with growing anticipation, until she speaks.

“On your knees,” she says and in an instant he is. She continues,  “That’s how you like it, right? You wingless creatures who rely on your legs. You subjugate yourselves on your knees. There you are helpless, immobile, trapped like a fly in a spider’s web. You cannot run. Not that you would ever run from me, Soft Ears.”

“Never,” he whispers, straining his neck to stare up at where she stands in front of him. So close, but not touching. How he craves her touch. But all in good time. He will be patient.

“Good boy. You wouldn’t run. You wouldn’t disobey. Or, perhaps, you couldn’t. Soft, soft,” she runs a wing down his chest and stomach, ever so slowly, stopping just short of where he most wants her touch. “Very pretty, Soft Ears. Not so sharp as your friend. She is a wolf and you are a dog. So sweet and tame.”

Her laugh is mean. It cuts through Throndir, and he loves it. He wants to hear it again, her chittering laugh telling him just how tiny he is to her, how silly. He whines. Another laugh.

“And you even sound like a dog, don’t you? Whining and begging for scraps from your mistress. I could even tell you to do tricks and you would,” she pauses for a moment as though considering. Then: “Roll over.”

His body obeys before his mind even processes the words. Dropping to lie on the bed and rolling over, stomach exposed. She reaches out to rub at his belly with a mandible, laughing the whole time. It tickles slightly. Throndir smiles, happy to have pleased her. Then she pushes with her mandible, shoving his chest against the the mattress until it hits the floor, until it hurts. Throndir doesn’t speak, but he looks at her, wondering what he did wrong. His lungs are constricted, and he can feel a bruise forming where her mandible lies. Eventually he cries out, and suddenly the weight is lifted. The pain is gone and his breaths come more smoothly. All the while, she stares at him inquisitively, almost apathetically.

“How was that?” she asks.

“It hurt. Was I bad? I’ll fix it. I’ll—”

“No, no. You were very good. I wanted to see you hurting and you gave me exactly what I wanted. You see?”

“Yes,” Throndir does not see, logic is beyond him at this point, but he wants to say yes. Yes, yes, yes. Nothing but yes to everything she asks. Something in his face gives him away, and she laughs again.

“Silly, silly, Soft Ears, but never mind. Sit up against the wall, hands behind your back,” she takes a step back and Thorondir repositions himself. He feels the cold breeze against his inner thighs as spreads his legs. “And promise me you won't move.”

“I promise,” he whispers worshipfully, clasping his hands tightly behind his back. It is then that she finally touches his desperate erection. She alternates between the soft warmth of her wing — feather light and teasing — and the sharp cold of her mandible — smooth and firm. She laughs the whole while, somehow cruel and kind all at once. Throndir wants to thrust up into her touches but does not dare. He is too scared. He does not want to make her mad. He does not want her to stop laughing. He sits completely still and obedient, occasional whines and moans slipping through his lips. One especially loud noise gets him a slap across the cheek, but a second later she leans forward to kiss the stinging scratch she left. She is still laughing at him and rubbing his erection the whole time, so Throndir knows he has been good. He is a good boy, and he is getting rewarded. It is a few seconds later that he comes.

Then Throndir wakes in his bedroll on the hard forest floor of Old Man’s Chin. He is drenched in sweat and the front of his pants are sticky with come. He looks around, hoping none of his companions are awake. They are all asleep but for Hadrian, off in the distance with his back to Throndir keeping watch. Throndir heads to the stream to wash the evidence of his dream from his body if not his mind.

**Author's Note:**

> No, I don't know how I wrote this before both Throndir/Redjack and Adaire/Rosette.  
> You can find me, hiding out in shame on twitter @abbyisshabby and tumblr as @abby-not-too-shabby


End file.
